Film 63 of The December Project

Most of you think The Rum Diary is a bit meh. Thing is, that's what makes it a bloody good adaptation of the book.
And I don't think I'm saying that just because I'm developing a crush on Bruce Robinson.
The Rum Diary is juvenilia.
The Rum Diary is Hunter S. Thompson at volume level 7.
At most.

I read it about ten years ago, after about ten of his other books, and it was quieter and meandering and washed-out, yet with flashes of the crazed quicksilver fury that created the HST legend.
There were many times when this film made me feel exactly like I did when reading the book. Occasionally it's a…

The Rum Diary is an adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson’s fictionalised memoirs of his time working as a journalist in Puerto Rico. This is clearly dear to Depp’s heart but at $45 million this is one expensive passion project. Unfortunately, for those that put up the money, it is hard to see a sizeable return on their investment. Bringing Bruce Robinson (Withnail & I) on board as writer-director looked like a masterstroke, but whilst he has made a very handsome looking film, the story is far too bitty and lacking in interest to work.

Depp delivers one of his better recent performances (although that isn’t saying much) but he is 20 odd years too old for the role, and looks it.…

Not a bad film detailing the making of Hunter S Thompson as we know him but not great, either. Depp expectedly gives the best performance with his usual facial twitches, but looks more like an Abercrombie and Fitch model than the hangover zombie he should resemble. Kudos to a 47 year old passing for a 22 yo. Every other character is boring, even Eckhart's. Ribisi's closet nazi 400% proof rum drinker as a future ghost of an exaggerated HST is a bit too freaky to be eccentric or wise, but nice try. A few funny moments but too labored and not laugh out loud. Visually stunning and some overlapping themes like colonial capitalism, journalism funded by the corporation (manufacturing of…

Didn't you just want to be the pilot of that little red biplane, coasting and gliding over the vast, sparkling blue ocean with the sound of Dean Martin crooning 'Volare' in your ears? Aah bliss. Then, like the preverbial bad landing, reality strikes.

"Oh my god. Why did she have to happen? When I was doing so well without her."

I'll be honest, I'm a sucker for Hunter S Thompson, the man was a well oiled literary marvel. At his heights, he was what we all aspire to be, original and fiercely unpredictable. He wrote life just the way he lived it, with close reigned anarchy and darting, bluebottle cynicism wrapped in a barbed wire front of psychotic, unparalleled reality.…